


Of Skald and Myth

by sincewearetellingstories



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe, F/M, God!Loki, Human and God relationships, Human!Sigyn, Mortal!Sigyn - Freeform, Myth rewritten, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Skald and Myth, Viking Age, believe, myth!Loki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9834899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincewearetellingstories/pseuds/sincewearetellingstories
Summary: The Myths surround us. They are influenced by us, drawn to our belief, to our stories.A different take on Sigyn and Loki, with a human story teller Sigyn and a drifting myth of Loki. But they are, as always, inevitable it would seem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if the format seems a bit funny or everything isn't indented like I tried to make it, AO3 seems to not like all of my conventions on word and has randomly decided to not indent some paragraphs.

From what the trickster could tell, the woman was young. Barely a woman from what he could see. A girl still, though that had just been the first time he had seen her. He’d been in a village he should not have been. Out on the borders of what any would dare call the _outskirts_ of the power of the myths. Or at least that is what he thought, until he got punched in the face by this furious little Viking.

            “Leave it be, Sigyn,” the boy who Loki’s latest mischief had been focused on grumbled as the girl stood up.

            “Yes, little Sigyn, _leave it be_ ,” okay, he definitely deserved _that_ punch. He really should have seen that one coming.

            “Be gone, _mischief_ ,” she named him. This little ball of rage, at least a head shorter then he, and hidden beneath the thick furs of winter, _named_ him. He might have been impressed, if he hadn’t seen that last punch flying.

            He left nothing behind but mist.

 

            Time was a tricky thing in the ‘myths’. Not quite mist, not quite history, but not always anything tangible. Sometimes, all it was, was a quick smile, a half a laugh, other times though, it was a hall, sometimes a world, sometimes nine, sometimes, it was even just an ash tree.

            Whatever the myths were, there was one thing they weren’t: Predicable. They were never predictable. And that, might be his problem. See, even those who represent chaos, mischief, they aren’t immune to the chaos of the universe. To the tricks of the myths. Even if they were _supposed to fucking represent them, world tree be damned._

And that’s how Loki, the (more or less) god of mischief and chaos, ended up back in that place, on the very outskirts of the reach of the myths, stronger than he had been before.

 

            “I may be a _skald_ , but I have a feeling even the village isn’t going to believe this one.” A female voice sounded from below him.

            “So, you are a _skald_ now, last I saw you,” Loki began, extracting himself from the net he was caught in. “You were some _child_ who just ran around punching strangers.” He reached down into his boot to pull out one of his daggers to cut away at the fishing net.

            “I will not even explain to you the irony of this,” Sigyn sighed, reaching up to grasp at the edges of the net. “Don’t you dare cut this net,” she warned as she pulled sharply at her end, twisting the entire thing until Loki was falling face first towards the ground.

            “Ah, yes, care to explain to me how impaling myself _on my own blade_ was better than injuring your dear _net_.” He seethed, after hissing in pain once he hit the ground.

            “Because, you are myth, and that net feeds the entire village.” She explained stiffly, crouching down to look at his wound. “Besides, I’ve had worse than this,” she huffed, pulling away to sit on her heels. “But if you wish to be a _child_ about it, then I can take care of the wound for you, but it will mean a short walk.” She muttered, pushing herself back into a standing position before leaning back down to offer him her hand.

            “Then, oh _skald_ , take me to where you would heal me.”

 

            After the second visit to Sigyn, and her village, Loki felt himself _solidifying_ more and more into the area. It was a strange feeling, one he had not experienced in many years, not since all of the myths had started to feel almost weaker. But here, here in this little village, it felt as if he was finally on firm ground, and so, he returned. Again, and again, more frequently if he could.

            He couldn’t help the need to go back, to solidify himself in the myths of that village. _Maybe if he kept going back, he could stay._ His mind betrayed him. _Maybe if he kept returning, he could live as they did. All at once._

            It had been nearly five summers since he had met Sigyn for the first time. According to her. To him, it was intermittent, if he was not at the village, he was somewhere else, sometimes in the myths, sometimes not. But he was there now.

            He could feel the last heat of the sun, clinging to the earth after it was gone. Just after sunset then. He could hear something, just past his line of sight, a festival perhaps. And then he saw it, saw the fire start, the cries of the village growing.

            Midsummer’s festival, then. Perfect. The festivities alone should be able to anchor him there for a few days, the storytelling, though, that could keep him for many nights, perhaps even longer.

            He took a step towards the now raging bonfire.

           

            He could hear her voice flowing from the other side of the fire, her back to the flames, her hair, long and flowing, looked nearly silver in the firelight. Her hands gestured wildly, but smooth, with practiced and fluid movements that only come with time and confidence. That come with absolute belief in the stories the _skald_ told.

            Unfortunately, he knew better, by this point, then to simple stroll into the middle of the festivities. He’d never get near her if he did. _A reoccurring stranger_ was what the village usually called him, only the elders and the two storytellers daring to know him, to name him. So, for now, he settled himself on the edge of the listeners, watching Sigyn’s face as she brought the story to life.

            He wondered what she would be like if she had been one of the myths, perhaps a _seidr_ user. Yes, he could see that, could see a magic flowing between her fingers, like a river of ideas, of possibilities and potential. Could see her as one of the _Vanir_ , fairest of creatures and as bright as the spring, with a heart that burned like the summer sun.

            But that was a possibility that was gone, something that never was, and would never be. So, he contented himself with listening to her story, to the myths of the village, wondering what all the night held for one who was never as real as he was imagined to be.

           

            She had spotted him immediately, half way through a story, she dared not stutter over her words, her story. But she watched him when she could, from the corner of her eye as she started the last of her tales. His eyes never wandered from her, though she could not tell, since the village children required the most of her attention, they had the strongest belief of them all, even her, and for now it was her job to bring it into a life. To bring their minds into the world just outside of their reach.

            As her last myth ended, a story of the potential for the end of the world, she brought the world back to the now, brought it back into the focus of _them_ , there at the _bonfire_ , sitting there wondering about the myths, keeping them alive.

            Her job finished, she stood carefully pulling her hair back from her face. She looked for him for a moment, wandering further and further away from the fire until she felt the presence behind her. She wiped around, brandishing the knife which Loki had left her, the one she had accidentally caused to stab him.

            “I’d like not to taste that blade twice,” the voice said, soothing away her fear and worry. She gave a bark of laughter before sheathing the weapon.

            “So, you return to our village again?” she asked with a smile dancing across her features.

            “Of course, a place so ripe with belief, how could I dare stay away?” he jested, taking her hand and spinning her twice before pulling her into a hug.

            “Well, I should assume you won’t be here long, and you owe me so many of your stories, mischief,” she breathed out.

            “Yes,” he was breathless with her so close, her body pulled flush against his. “I suppose I do…”

 

            Loki felt completely grounded. In the moment, frozen in time.

            Sigyn felt as if she were flying. All of her senses were on fire, she felt like she could feel the entire world underneath her fingertips.

            What it was, though, was the two together, wrapped around each other, refusing to let go. Pushing and pulling at each other, moving together. Breathing together. _Being_ together.

            This was them together. Occupying the same space. The same moment. Sharing breathes, touches, sensations.

            They panted, hands sliding across slick skin. Mouths coming together again and again, sometimes just coming close enough to share a breath, sometimes a moment of biting and clacking teeth, either way, it didn’t matter. This was them. And they were together. There was nothing else but them.

            No moment is truly eternity.

            When the draw of the stories was gone, when the moment of solidity faded away, he was gone again.

            She woke up to the dawning sun, and his fur cloak laid across her shoulders.

 

            He hadn’t stayed as long as Sigyn had hoped. In the end, she had only been left with the cloak she kept in the small space of her hall. The place wasn’t much, but it gave her a place to think and be, outside of being just the younger _skald_ of the village.

            She hadn’t seen Loki for several lunar cycles; though that wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes it could be half a year before she would see him again. As it was, she’d had him for nearly six nights after the festival, which had been the longest he’d ever been able to stay.

            It was curious, though, what caused him to come, what caused him to stay. A _skald_ knew the importance of the myths. But it was different to know, and to _see_. To touch the things which were once only words in a story.

            That was how she had been brought into being a _skald_. Because she had touched a myth, and an exchange like that, it is not only one way.

            Every time, every touch, it brought part of them closer and closer. It connected them. Just as every story, myth, legend, saga, tale she told, brought the myths to them, it gave the myths the ability to manifest, to make their stories stronger, which created an endless cycle of old and new stories. The old bringing the myths into a place, the new keeping them there for as long as the stories continued to be told.

            And now, there was a permanent mark of the exchange she and Loki embraced. Or there would be soon. She could feel it now, the child had already quickened, and it wouldn’t be long now until the village would talk, and perhaps their murmurs would draw him back to her.

            Perhaps a new story was coming.

 

Something felt different, and he could not place it for the life of him. The ground beneath his feet was, perhaps, more solid than it had been before. His connection to this place was firmer than it had been when he had last left it, but it was different in a way he had not experienced before. He could feel every stone under his foot, where as before, he simple stood on the path. He could feel every drop of rain on his skin, before though it had simple felt as if the rain was one collective entity, all the drops just making him feel the dampness of the air.

            This new depth of sensation was exhilarating. It was troubling. It was beautiful.

            He tried not to notice the stares of the other villagers as they watched him make his way to Sigyn’s hall. He almost felt like he was a stranger here, though the village knew his face, even though his appearances were intermittent at best most times.

            He had to fight the urge to announce his arrival at Sigyn’s hall.

            He almost wished he had, however, he wished he had that moment to compose himself. Of all the reason he had expected for his new found solidity, this had not been it. He had expected that perhaps another one of the myths had started to frequent the village. This, this was something entirely different.

_This_ was Sigyn standing there staring at him, her stomach firm, rounded under her dress. Rounded with new life, with a whole new reason for the villagers to speak of his presence there.

That, at least, explained the stares.

 

He had been uncharacteristically quiet for far too long, by the time she was able to sit down to talk with him. His eyes had not left her since he had entered, and her hands had not remained still for even a moment, flitting about in front of her, adjusting furs, poking at the fire, occasionally resting against her stomach, where no doubt the child within her stirred.

“Does your village watch me in hopes of my death, dear Sigyn?” Loki muttered as his eyes finally turned to the hall of the _skald_. “Should I perhaps be on guard for whatever your husband would do to me, should he find me here?” Sigyn could not help the laugh that escaped her mouth at his words.

“And what husband should you think I have, Loki?” her smile was free and light, as if she had a trick to play on the trickster. When he remained without words, she continued with hers. “Though they dare never name you, my village is not full of idiots,” she reminded him. “Since you first arrived, I think no man has ever approached me with any intention other than that of a good story.”

            That had gotten his attention. He had heard of these things from the others, had heard the stories many times. It was always impressive of what could come of unions such as this. But he was still surprised. He watched closely as she moved to stand again, expecting her to begin moving about the hall once again, a mild surprise settling in his chest when she came close to him, took his hands in hers.

            “I am my own woman, Loki, there are none who would control me. And the life I would make, while the credit is shared, the decision is mine to control.” She reminded him softly, guiding his hands to her belly, where the child stirred. A child of _skald_ and myth.

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in the bottom of my Sigyn/Loki folder. It is very different from my other works, a very different format. I hope you liked it, kudos and comments remind me to write, at least once in a blue moon.


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